I always thought I was conceited, 

for thinking I, was all I had.

Shutting myself away from the world

because I thought virtue 

had come from independence.

It was not that I had ideas of superiority,

nor did I find any trouble looking for help,

but perhaps I thought

I was too difficult to love.

Them or me,

who was the problem?

This insoluble question terrorized me, 

day and night it bounced around the walls of my mind.

So the only person I let in my life,

was me, myself, and I.

I wondered how I could trust anyone,

because I knew deep down there was no one 

who truly had my interest in mind.

I knew and I know

that I would be disappointed,

for who could I rely on but myself.

Time and time again,

people have proved to me

that they are nothing but destructive.

This pattern would only continue, 

from adolescence to beyond

Now with these revelations of autonomy,

that I flurried in my head;

I put up a wall, not even I could tear down,

And although Kierkegaard may deduce me,

to one who lives a life of mere aesthetic.

I know that I care for no man on Earth,

and no man on Earth cares for me.